


Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus

by CloudAtlas



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Circus, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Magic, Wizard Clint Barton
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-14
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2019-02-14 18:38:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13013772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CloudAtlas/pseuds/CloudAtlas
Summary: Here, have nearly five thousand words of the first MCU fanfic I ever tried my hand at. It's a Harry Potter/MCU fusion. In my head it was going to be massive. In the end it was mostly just this; how Clint Barton discovered he was a wizard.





	Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus

**Author's Note:**

> This was written before I knew anything about the canon American Wizarding School. Largely, I explored this idea because _I_ wanted to make up North American Wizarding countries. Once I'd worked them out, I lost interest in the idea. The countries I came up with are [here](https://twitter.com/untweetablethor/status/792712001692766208).
> 
> Names in square brackets are placeholders for names/things I never eventually decided on.
> 
> This is unfinished and will remain so. Unbeta'd.

Clint isn’t sure, because it’s late and he’s really tired, but he’s fairly sure that last arrow landed in a shower of sparks. But that can’t be right because he didn’t light it and anyway, these aren’t his fire arrows.

                           

Aged 11 and Clint Barton has had a more interesting life than most grown-ups.

At least, for a given definition of interesting.

What’s more, all his ‘interesting’ experiences have started innocently enough or… well, in a manner of speaking. Being beaten by his father is something that he has no recollection of _starting_ , it just _was_ ; pain and bruises and alcohol laced breath being as much part of his childhood as poor report cards and Sophie Gillen from next door always losing her football over their fence. But for most people, alcoholism starts innocently enough so Clint figures that it counts; a slow escalation of violence that culminated with their Chevy pickup wrapped around a cedar tree off Highway 27, orphaned in the space of a heartbeat.

The others too; Barney aged 13 going “fuck this shit” in the latest state run orphanage they were sent to, Clint following because it was _Barney_ and family is important; the only place where the cops wouldn’t move them on being on the edge of some industrial wasteland, and then getting no sleep anyway because _hey,_ the circus had come to town; Casey leaning over and saying _hey kid, that’s a mighty fine aim you’ve got there_ just loud enough for everyone to hear.

In retrospect, Clint would recognise this moment for being another such turning point. But right now he’s just really confused.

 

When he’s not needed anywhere else, Clint spends most of his time up in the catwalks and support beams of the big top. This way he can avoid Davey Chavez who likes to pick on him because he’s small, and Buck who shouts too loudly and too often, and Barney who, it turns out, didn’t think family meant quite as much as Clint thought it did. Sometimes pigeons get caught up there, flying in before the sides are properly fixed and panicking when they find there’s no way out, but this is the first time Clint has ever found an owl.

Clint understands animals – a point illustrated beautifully by Madame Velasquez’ cat who likes no one in the circus at all, apart from Madame Velasquez and Clint – and he’s fairly sure that a) owls shouldn’t be out during the day and b) they should do more than look at you condescendingly when you attempt to shoo them out of a circus big top. But what does Clint know really? He stopped going to school last year; maybe high school teaches you about owl behaviour.

Clint isn’t really sure what to do. The owl is huge with bright yellow eyes and is looking at Clint like Clint is supposed to do something – something other than try and get it out of the tent. When Clint attempts once more, flapping his hand and hissing “Go on! Get out of here!” the owl looks so unimpressed Clint worries he’s going mad, because he’s fairly sure this owl is _judging him_.

And then it _sticks its leg out_ and there’s a _letter there_ , and Clint knows he’s going mad.

 

Clint is a naturally curious person – or at least, curious when he’s not supposed to be, when it’s better not to be; curious in the what-the-hell-are-you-doing-here sort of way, in the don’t-fucking-touch-that sort of way, in the do-that-again-and-I’ll-break-your-arm sort of way, in the broken arm sort of way. So when the letter (delivered by an _owl_ , what the hell?) said:

> Dear Mr Barton,
> 
> I am pleased to inform you that you have been awarded a place at the [Salem Institute for Magical Learning], one of the most prestigious schools for witchcraft and wizardry in the [Atlantic Confederacy]. Please be at Lou-Ann’s Café on State Road and Pine in Holly Hill, SC at midday on Tuesday the 19th July for further information.
> 
> Yours sincerely,
> 
> Geraldine Fellows,
> 
> Deputy Headmistress

Well… Clint was curious. Because the owl had found him in the big top of Carson’s outside Monroe, NC and whoever sent this – this Geraldine Fellows, Deputy Headmistress – knew that Carson’s would be outside Holly Hill, SC in mid-July, and that was… curious. Interesting.

Definitely worth checking out.

 

For all that Clint was an absurdly curious person, he wasn’t stupid. Or at least, he had learnt from past mistakes. So while he did indeed go to Lou-Ann’s Café on State Road and Pine in Holly Hill, SC at midday on Tuesday the 19th July – for further information no less – he did take one of Jacques sharpest and most easily concealed knives with him. He would have taken his bow, but that was much harder to hide.

Clint wasn’t exactly sure what he was supposed to do when he arrived at Lou-Ann’s. He considered going in and getting a coffee, but eventually opted for lurking around outside like a creeper to save money.

Clint judged midday by the sun, having no means to tell the time other than an incredibly old phone that only really worked if you hit it just right. He was just looking down to check if his shadow was directly under his feet when a man came out of Lou-Ann’s, looked around briefly and then said; “Clinton Barton I presume?”

Clint looked at him suspiciously before saying “Clint.”

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s Clint. My name.”

The man smiled, making a noise of understanding before gesturing to the interior to Lou-Ann’s and saying “Care for some lunch, Clint?”

Clint didn’t move. “So you’re a – a wizard then? Do I get a name?”

The man looked quickly around himself before saying, “Please, come inside before asking things like that,” and then when Clint didn’t move he conceded. “My name is Kingston James. You may call me Kingston. Please Clint, come inside and I’ll answer any question you have.”

Clint deliberated for a moment more before curiosity won out again, and he allowed the man – Kingston James – to shepherd him into a corner booth overlooking the State Road.

Lou-Ann’s is a typical American diner, with red vinyl seats and brushed steel countertops. The waitress, a buxom middle-aged woman with badly dyed blonde hair and a tired smile, immediately bustled over to their table, asking if they wanted to order or if they would like some more time. Considering Clint’s arse hadn’t even touched the seat before she was at their table, he thought that option two was the more common decision. However, Kingston seemed to know what he wanted and, after ordering, turned to Clint with a questioning eyebrow. Clint was briefly worried – he didn’t really have money for an actual meal out, but Kingston James was quick with his “it’s on me Clint, don’t worry”. Clint ordered a burger, fries and a large coke, remembering to tack on a ‘please’ just in time.

Once the waitress had left their table, Kingston turned to Clint, looking as though he was about to launch into some pre-prepared speech, but Clint cut him off.

“How did you know I’d be here?”

“I didn’t. I was just hoping you’d turn up.”

“No, not _here_ here. Here as in Holly Hill. How did you know I would be in Holly Hill in July? How did you know I was in Monroe in June?”

“Again, I didn’t. I’m not the one who sends out the letters. However, owls can find you no matter where you are.” _Yes_ thought Clint, _because that’s a reasonable statement._

“And that’s another thing; it came by owl! What the fuck?”

“Wizards use owls to deliver mail. You get used to it.”

“So you’re a wizard then.”

“Yes.”

Clint stared at him for a moment; his expression a perfect mix of scepticism and incredulity. Then he put his head into his palms. Then, pushing the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, he muttered “This is _fucked up_.”

Their waitress chose this moment to return, depositing a large Coke in front of Clint, and a coffee for Kingston. Clint didn’t move from his position, and clearly their waitress had looked at him funny or something because Kingston said “don’t worry, he’s fine” in the most calming tone of voice he had ever heard. _Must be a wizard thing_ Clint thought, before scowling into his hands.

Neither Clint nor Kingston said anything for a long moment and then Kingston cleared his throat, and when Clint looked up at him, he started talking.

“OK so I’m going to explain something to you. And right now it doesn’t matter if you believe in magic or anything, but I want you to just hear this.”

Clint kept his face impassive, staring at Kingston with unnerving intensity. Kingston seemed to take this as consent though, because he continued after a small pause.

“I work for a specific department of the [Atlantic] Ministry – and I’ll explain what that is in a moment,” he said quickly, as Clint opened his mouth to question him. “I’ll explain everything, just listen a moment, OK?” Clint closed his mouth, stared at him a moment and then nodded for him to continue.

“So, I work for a specific department of the Ministry. It is a subdivision of both the Welfare Department and the Department of Muggle Relations. And a Muggle, before you ask, is a non-magical person.” Kingston said, cutting that particular question off before it could even form. “Basically, I go around finding Muggleborn witches and wizards, and explain everything about the Wizarding World to them, and then invite them to school.”

Clint raised an eyebrow at this. In his experience, government departments don’t _explain_ things to anyone. And they certainly don’t follow that up by _inviting_ you to something as if you had the option of turning it down.

“The Improper Use of Magic Office picked you up in Clay where, if we are correct, you – along with you brother – were in the care of a Mr and Mrs Jefferson after the death of your parents. Apparently, you made a step in their stairs disappear.”

Clint’s face registered complete shock, followed by open hostility and suspicion. “How the fuck do you know that?”

Kingston looks at Clint, assessing; noting the sudden tenseness in his shoulders, the way his left hand slipped under the table. Clint saw him considering his next words carefully, his voice coming out even and measured.

“The Ministry can… detect magic, especially the magic of those under the age of 17.”

“Why?” Clint demanded. “How?”

“Underage magic is… banned –” Kingston managed to get out, and Clint bolted.

Kingston’s shout of “No!” comes out muffled to Clint’s ears, but his hand around Clint’s wrist was strong and unrelenting.

“Get off me!” Clint yelled, struggling against Kingston’s grip and attempting to get to his knife with his right hand. Kingston’s grip on his wrist tightened, and he left the booth to wrap his arm around Clint’s torso, leading Clint to kick out wildly and Kingston to snap “Dammit Clint, calm down and let me explain.”

“No! I ain’t going back to no Fed orphanage! And I ain’t going to fucking juvie either!” Clint kicked out harder, trying to break his grip.

“No one’s going to send you anywhere Clint! Calm down!”

Clint suddenly stilled having got his right hand on his knife, and snapped out “Explain. Quickly. Or you’ll get a fucking knife to the gut.”

Kingston’s grip briefly tightened on his wrist again, and then he quickly said, “Accidental magic happens. Especially to those not yet trained, and especially in times when the person is feeling threatened – as a form of self-preservation.”

“Self-preservation.” Clint went completely still, all his muscles locking up as a sudden calm rage filled him. “Self _fucking_ preservation?” He tried to wrench out of Kingston’s grip again. “Are you shitting me?” He tried again. “Self-preservation!?”

“Clint, if you don’t calm down –”

“ _Self fucking preservation_!” Clint yelled, and tried to wrench away again.

“Clint…”

“Fucking self fucking –”

“Clint, brace.”

Kingston’s sudden change of topic and tone caught Clint off guard, and he only managed to get out an incredulous “ _What?_ ” before Kingston _jerked_ and Clint felt as though he was being pushed and pulled in several different directions; his whole body being forced though a gap far, far too small for it.

And then all at once, he was in a wood.

“What the _fucking fuck_ was that?” And this time, when Clint wrenched away, Kingston let him go. Clint spun on his heal with Jacques’ knife now in his hand.

“I could ask you the same damn thing, Clint!” Kingston suddenly sounded angry. “I just had to Apparate from a Muggle diner because you decided to have a yelling match!”

And for a moment Clint looked bewildered, and then his previous anger came back and his whole body tensed, anger flooding his veins and clouding his voice.

“Self-preservation, you said,” he grinds out.

Kingston suddenly looks wary, like he just realised that he might have stepped into something he wasn’t expecting, and wasn’t prepared for. “Yes,” he said carefully. “[…]”

“Un- _fucking_ -believable,” Clint snarled, his hands balled into fists so tight his knuckles were turning white.

“Clint, I don’t – ” Kingston started, taking an abortive step toward him.

“I’m not coming with you,” Clint interrupted harshly.

“I don’t understand – ”

“Self-preservation, you said. This fucking magic business is supposed to keep you safe, supposed to make sure that you’re protected.” And at Kinston’s slightly bewildered half nod, Clint exploded. “Then _where the fuck_ has it been all my fucking life?!”

Kingston’s bewildered expression was quickly morphing to one of concern. “What do you mean, Clint?”

“Where the fuck was it when my dad locked me in a cupboard for two days for knocking over his whiskey?” Clint could feel that helpless rage wash over him once again. “Where was it when he broke my arm aged three? Where was it aged five where he beat me for trying to protect my mum? When he took his belt to my back? Or broke my ribs? Or aged six when my dad was so _fucking drunk_ that he _drove my mum into a tree_ off fucking Highway 27? Where the fuck was it then?”

Kinston looked absolutely horrified, breathing out a quiet “shit” before suddenly choking out a “Wait, what?”

“What do you mean ‘ _what_ ’?” Clint snarls. “Having the shit kicked out of you isn’t classed as threatening where you come from? Jesus.”

“No, Clint, of course it does. _Merlin_. But… what do you mean, off Highway 27? There’s no Highway 27 in Kentucky.”

“No shit, Sherlock. In fucking Iowa.” Clint was shaking, adrenaline rushing through him, making him jittery, and causing him to completely ignore the fact that someone has just used the word “merlin” in normal – ha! – conversation.

“What were you doing in Iowa?” Kingston asked, confused.

“What do you mean, what was I doing in Iowa?” Clint spat. “I was born in fucking Iowa! I spent the first six years of my miserable fucking life in Iowa! Jesus fuck.”

“Iowa?” Kingston said again.

“Yes, fucking Iowa.” Clint snapped. “What’s so special about that?”

“So you’re not from [Alantic]?” Kingston asked.

“Where? No. Where the fuck is that?”

“It’s… the Eastern Seaboard of America, more or less.” Kingston explained, distractedly. “North America is split up differently for wizards. We’re currently in [Atlantic]. I work for the [Atlantic] Ministry. The US state of Iowa is in the wizarding nation of Dakota.” Kingston paused and then said quietly, almost to himself; “They should have picked you up, not us.”

Kingston walked a couple of paces away from Clint and took out what looked like a flip phone, into which he said “Kitchi” and then stood, for the moment completely ignoring him. Clint, after the initial rush of anger and the subsequent adrenalin, collapsed down on the ground as if his strings had been cut. He was suddenly very tired and feeling increasingly out of his depth. At least the little teleportation stunt had confirmed Kingston’s… wizardness… sufficiently. Clint thought that was a pretty neat trick to learn.

He zoned back in to find Kingston having an urgent sounding discussion with the guy on the other end of the phone.

“He’s from Dakota, Kitchi… no, not even close. Iowa… No… Des Moines way… close enough… well, what do we do? Should we contact the Dakota Ministry?... No he’s already been contacted by Fellows, why do you think I’m here?... wait, you lost him? Wait –” Kingston suddenly turns to Clint. “Hey, Clint? Where do you live right now?”

Clint expression was distinctly unimpressed. “What, your fancy magic doesn’t tell you?”

Kingston’s expression morphed into a mirror of Clint’s own.

“Carson’s Carnival of Travelling Wonders,” he sighed, a strange mix of sarcasm and bitterness colouring his tone.

Kingston nodded like that made sense. Then he seemed to catch up with what Clint had actually said and looked astonished. “You live in a _carnival_?”

Clint shrugs, like it’s no big deal, and Kingston just stares at him for a moment, before turning back to the person on the other end of the phone.

“He lives in a carnival sir… no, like… yeah… Well, I guess so… Well, he’s got a place already, it’d be more trouble to reorganise that with the Dakota Ministry. Holidays will have to be figured out I think, but it’s no more or less difficult than it was before… yes… yes, sir… will do. Bye.”

Kingston snapped his phone shut and turned – looking suddenly much less sure of himself – back to Clint, who had flopped onto his back and was staring at the canopy above him.

“Causing problems already am I?” he said to the air.

Kingston snorted. “Like you wouldn’t even believe,” he joked weakly, and then, “You OK?”

“Yeah, I’m just grand.”

There was a long silence, and then Kingston said in a soft voice, “I’m sorry about your parents, Clint.”

Clint stiffened again, determinedly staring at the branches above him. “Whatever, it was ages ago.”

“Not really, Clint. You’re only eleven.”

“Can you just drop it? I’m fine.” Clint snapped, and it seemed that Kingston conceded, because for a few minutes there was no talking. Clint continued to stare at the shifting canopy of leaves above him and Kingston stood watching Clint. Then Kingston sat down next to Clint’s head, cross-legged like a kid in elementary school – which looked ridiculous on his massive frame – and said quietly “If you ever want to talk about it, I’m here” and when all he received was a silent ‘are you kidding me?’ look from Clint he sighed and said “So… any questions?”

 

Kingston was not that surprised by Clint’s lack of knowledge about the magical world, but he was surprised by Clint’s determination to learn more. This wasn’t really due to any particular thirst for knowledge on Clint’s part, more a hard won lesson that the more you knew, the better prepared you were to deal with any shit that followed. Because shit would always follow, Clint had ample proof of that.

And it seemed that Kingston liked Clint, because every now and again, when his job allowed it, he would turn up – outside Walterboro, SC where Chez ran away with a girl, in Metter, GA where the big top nearly fell on Sara, in Colquitt, GA where it rained for five days straight in _July_ – to tell Clint more about the wizarding world and bully Clint into letting him pay for ice cream. Clint tentatively allowed it, because he could count on one hand the number of people who voluntarily wanted to be around him (and that included both Madame Velasquez _and_ her cat), and because instinct counted a lot for Clint. And instinct apparently said that the huge black guy, who could probably even take Big Mik in a fight, was trustworthy – or at least not actively harmful.

The biggest question Clint had was how he was going to pay for all this. Wizarding School was for seven years, and Clint didn’t have the money to pay for new sneakers, let alone seven years in what, to him, sounded like the fanciest boarding school known to man. (Apparently it wasn’t though. Kingston said that the [Salem] school was based on one in the UK – older and much fancier – and that’s where they’d got a huge amount of their ideas from, as well as the house names). And while Kingston assured Clint that the [Atlantic] Government ( _Ministry_ , Clint reminded himself) had contingency funds in place for people such as Clint, he wasn’t happy about it; Clint didn’t like relying on others, they only let him down.

Between their first meeting in July and the start of term in the beginning of September, Clint learnt more than he ever had in school, and tentatively accepted his place at [Salem]. And between the two of them they concocted a plausible lie to tell the circus when he inevitably disappeared, because it was all well and good having a place at school for nine months of the year, but school shut eventually and Clint still needed a place to say for the other three months. And the circus, for all its faults, was still the closest to a home Clint has ever had.

The second to last time that Clint met up with Kingston that summer was in the end of August, outside Luverne, AL where the heat was so omnipotent, so all consuming, that every movement seemed a monumental effort. The next time they would meet would be a week later, when Clint would say goodbye to Carson, to Barney and Madame Velasquez and her cat, and be taken by Kingston to Salem – in that same awful squeezing way Clint had experienced at Lou-Ann’s Café in Holly Hill, SC (Where It All Began) what felt like a lifetime ago – to go shopping for school supplies. And then on to the [Salem Institute for Magical Learning].

 

Clint met Kingston on a deserted stretch of road three miles from where Carson’s is pitched on the outskirts of Luverne, AL. It was overcast, but the temperature was already climbing, even at seven in the morning. All Clint’s possessions are packed into one severely patched duffle bag.

“Is that all you are bringing with you?”

Clint met Kingston’s incredulous stare with one of his own.

“What? Clothes and archery stuff, what more do I need?”

Kingston stares at him for a moment longer before saying “OK so we’re going to go shopping in Boston first, before going to Salem. You need more clothes, and ones without holes in, preferably.”

Clint shrugs.

 

It turns out that getting to Boston is not as easy as Clint first thought it would be. He figured Kingston would do his weird teleportation thing and they’d turn up on a street corner in Boston and that would be it. But apparently, Clint is particularly problematic and has already ensured that Kingston has permits from at least three different magical governments to work within their borders. And because of where Clint was picked up from, they had to teleport (Kingston said it was called Apparation really, but ‘teleportation’ reminds Clint of sneaking into cinemas to watch Star Trek, so he prefers to call it that) to New Orleans, and then do a load of paperwork before holding onto a brass telescope that transports them to Boston and another lot of paperwork.

[get to Salem, shop for stuff, travel to school, get sorted]

 

Clint is a Hufflepuff, and if Barney was anything like Clint – like this; different, _magical_ – he’s sure he’d have something to say about that. Misfits and cowards; soft and useless and so easily duped. Clint doesn’t care, because Barney left him behind in the dirt outside Broken Arrow, OK (and in retrospect: _irony_ ) – not literally, but that doesn’t matter – and he stopped having any say in Clint’s life from there on in. And Clint is a misfit, has always been a misfit. And he knows he’s not a coward. And he might have been easily duped _then_ , but now… not anymore. And Clint supposes he has Barney to thank for that.

So no, Clint has no problem being a Hufflepuff because they might be all those things, but so are plenty of other people – character traits are not so easily pigeonholed. And Hufflepuffs are plenty of other things too. Loyal. Kind. _Nice_ – and Clint _knows_ this because the six other guys in his dorm have been surprisingly good about Clint. Because Clint learnt almost as soon as he arrived that he was a hundred things that some people seemed to hate on principle; Muggleborn, orphan, carnie, Midwestern (as if that has any baring here, of all places), scholarship student (or as good as, and not because he’s especially good at anything, just because it seems that that’s what the government – _this_ government, the [Atlantic] Ministry – do; take castoffs and give them a place and means and a _chance_. And Clint can’t say he’s had many of those).

So yeah, they’re nice – friendly even – for all that Clint spends most of his time actively trying not to make friends.

 

Clint’s first year or so at [Salem] goes by much like his first few months at the circus, like his first few months as a ward of the United States Government; slowly, watchfully, without making many friends. It’s not that Clint doesn’t want friends, it more that Clint learnt something about himself those years after his parents died. Clint tends to trust the wrong people, because the wrong people are the first people to notice you. So instead of falling into that pattern again, Clint watches. And waits. 

[round up of the year – what he’s good at, the teachers he likes, the guys in his dorm, Christmas on his own, the tentative friends he makes, the people to avoid, bullies, practicing archery in secret]

 

Clint’s first summer back at the circus is terrible. He’d practiced at [Salem] sure, but he was still pretty out of shape nonetheless. And Barney… well Barney wasn’t gone yet. The five years between them meant that it was another two years before Barney could legally up and join the army. Because Barney was always going to join the army; because Barney liked being bigger than other people, liked being better than other people, and liked bossing other people around. Barney also had a sadistic streak a mile wide, and Clint was sure that the promise of firearms was enough for him.

So Barney was around, mocking Clint for going to a _boarding school_. In _Boston_. Mocking him for becoming a pansy and a faggot and a fucking toff and “you think you’re better’un us, yeah? With your fancy school an’ your New England friends? Good job I’m ‘round then, huh? Make sure you remember that you’re not. You’re just a little shit. Just like always.”

Of course, Clint couldn’t turn around and tell him that the school isn’t in Boston, it’s in Salem. And it isn’t in New England either, not really and _you remember all those times I thought I was hallucinating that my arrows were spontaneously catching fire? Well I wasn’t hallucinating._ But Clint can’t _think_ the words ‘magic’ and ‘wizard’ in the same sentence in as himself. Not here, outside La Junta, Colorado – because ‘wizard’ and ‘Colorado’ didn’t go together. Regular him, circus him, the Clint Barton that’s also the Amazing Hawkeye on account of his aim and his home state – that Clint Barton was in Colorado, sure. Wizard Clint though, he was in Dakota, and not either of the US Dakotas, either. No, that Clint was in the wizarding country of Dakota, a country that stretched as far as Saskatchewan.

_This wizarding thing_ , Clint thinks, _is fucking with my head._

So Clint doesn’t say anything back to Barney. Instead, he accepts the taunts, accepts the insults and accepts the accusation that he’d applied to schools in secret to get away from his brother (who doesn’t even seem to realise that most schools have elementary education as a prerequisite for admittance). Instead, Clint enjoys the roar of the crowd, reacquaints himself with Madam Velasquez and her cat and feels a sense of dislocation so strong he aches.

Clint discovers he’s a hundred different things that summer. He’s an Iowan, but also a Dakotan, in a way that theoretically makes complete sense, but in practice is completely fucking with Clint’s head. He’s a carnie, but also a boarding school student. He’s an orphan, but also has a family, apparently. (And no, he’s not referring to Barney). He doesn’t have a home but he does have a House. He doesn’t have US dollars, but he does a small amount of [Atlantic] galleons.

And he’s a Muggle, but he’s also a wizard. He can turn stuff into other stuff with a pointy stick. But that’s not that special, because he could do that before. Sight, aim, fire. Alive, then dead. All with a pointy stick.

The only thing that hasn’t changed is that he’s a misfit with an asshole brother. Cold comfort.

 

Kingston James comes to pick Clint up on the 31st of August from outside Klamath Falls, OR. He says goodbye to Madam Velasquez and her cat, and to Carson, but nobody else.

Barney’s not there.


End file.
